Event at work

There was an event at the conference room where I work. I had worked from seven in the morning, and was offered if I wanted to hang around for another two hours. There'd be food and drinks, but no music; all in attendance were women, and I was the only guy among them. Even the hosts, the writer presenting her book, and those in attendance, they ate and drank and talked and talked. There I was, surrounded by a sea of women in the prime of their careers, well-dressed, fifty or so beautiful women. I kept my masculine core and aura, then teased the girls serving as hosts. I joked I felt like that man in the axe deodorant commercial stuck in an island with hundreds of beautiful women and felt alive like I haven't for a while... it was a boost so desperately needed, a blow to the voices of doom lurking in the back of my mind. You do realize whatever it is you tell yourself, becomes real for you, regardless of its veracity. Act with high confidence and honor, be proud and warm, straight-forward and kind.

Love Child

Jules was conceived in South Beach. His mom and I were in love. He was a love child, and he is loved by our friends and family. Connie had her doubts initially as to whether she should have him, but it didn't take long before she decided to do so; I, on the other hand, couldn't be happier. Ever since I had my firstborn Stephan, I always wanted the opportunity to have another child. 

Back then, it was me and not the mom who didn't want a child in my life, but that all changed the minute his mom decided to do so. 

With Stephan, as it is the case with some fathers, I felt like my "freedom" would end and that it wasn't fair to bring a child into the mess we had made of our lives. Besides, I was afraid because she was already in her forties. That all changed gradually, and when I saw him emerge from his mom's womb, I fell head over heals for him. A few days old, he smiled at me and that is one of the most beautiful gifts life has ever bestowed upon me. Since day one, Stephan and I were inseparable, he changed me immensely, made me more responsible, less self-centered. 

His mom Beth had had another child, ten years earlier with another man, and so I had had with him my first parenting skills polished. I thought I loved him like a son, since I got him very young, until I had a son; it's not that I don't love my stepson, I do, but my son was a whole different ballgame. I never knew love like that could exist. 

When Jules was born, his brother was already seven years old. This time around, the mom was ten years younger than me, a beautiful girl who had never had a child, with whom I wanted to start life anew. In many ways, I kind of see her as I was back then: afraid of what the world might mean with a child in my life, maybe feeling unready for it. We all go through those uncertain phases, doubting our capacity to love, wanting freedom over commitment. In the end, there are no right or wrong choices, just uplifting and daring moves or stagnation. 

With Stephan, my worst fears came alive the day I was told he was diagnosed with autism. Little did his mom know what that meant and the first burst of anger was quietly manifested at the fact that this woman was so ignorant, as she casually informed me of it. As I heard the news, I started crying. I remember holding him in my arms and crying. Then I decided to change the world around him so that he had all the possibilities he could possibly have in order to lessen his ordeal. Little did I know how ignorant I was too. 

It wasn't his ordeal I had to lessen; it was the way I saw things that were up for review. My perspective was in disarray. It wasn't about changing him; it was about changing myself. It wasn't about teaching him about the world I lived in but instead learning all about the wonderful world he inhabited. It wasn't about expecting the world; it was about managing expectations. It was, in the end, from the very beginning, about him, not me. 

Of course, you're rarely as enlightened, and I'd be lying to myself and to others if I said that there are no voices of doom in the midst. The darkest prognosis for me had been, not having a father in my life and growing up with an overprotective mother: it was ironic that I, who hadn't had a relationship with my own father, now was destined to not have one with my son. Analyzed closely, that view wasn't accurate: first, I was going to have a relationship with my son; and secondly, I could always pick up from where I left off with my father. I tried to rekindle the ashes, reconnect the broken ties of our bond, spoke to him on his birthday, and once I sent him some money around Christmas time. I remember, yes, he wasn't home and I left him a message with his daughter, my little half sis Naomi, whom told him of my pecuniary intentions. The very next day he called, and this time it was me who wasn't home. Beth later informed me of a bombastic man who talked her down on the phone, and that night the same man called. It was my father. In an inebriated tone of voice, he bewailed about the woman who answered the phone earlier, and I let him finish his sentence before I assertively interjected: "You mean Beth." The aggression in his voice dropped and for the first time I knew I could never be a son to this man nor could he ever be a father to me: I had outgrown him. He quickly moved on with his agenda, blabbing in glazed mid-sentences, as if his initial strength had dwindled and abandoned him: "Your sister tells me you were gonna send me some money. How much are we talking about?" I softened my approach, it is not a manly attitude to adopt an air of arrogance before those in need, especially when they're relatives, even though his question begged for me to show a defiant stance I wanted to both show some humility and see where he wanted to go with this.
"Well, I was thinking eighty dollars would suffice" I played along, see where it'd lead me with him.
"If that's all you can muster, then I guess it's fine" he said, with a dismissive tone.
It made my stomach turn.
"Listen here", I said: " You can count on that money. There's just one thing that always bugged my mind, and I just wanted to let you in on it now that I have the time to do so."
"What's that?" he inquired.
"It always seemed to me like a puzzle but maybe you can shed some light into this mystery: How is it that a man can one day pick up and leave his wife with three of his children, and never ever look back?" I asked, of course, rhetorically.
A deafening silence befell the conversation and tears drowned his voice, his thoughts floated but his mind never surfaced, he had really nothing to say to that. 

Russian Roulette

I left from work and walked up the street, from 42nd to 54th street on 2nd avenue, entered a few establishments, saw crowds of people but did not stay anywhere for long, until I decided that I had seen enough and it was time to head back to Queens. By the time I got there, only my cousins (two girls, two guys with their respective girlfriends; one of the girls works there and really isn't a cousin but a cousin of a cousin of mine, and the other girl, a cousin cousin, left shortly after I got there.. it was her birthday), a few hardcore regulars, some others, I didn't really look around and I sat on the familiar side of the bar. 

Usually, I propel into action, move aside, sit alone, step out of my comfort zone and into the unknown. It really is that simple, and it makes all the difference, the more we get used to doing and being with those who are closest to us, the less we get to know the ones that are new. You must do away with the old if you must move toward fresher, uncharted territory. Three beers down, I noticed a familiar face, that feeling you get when you know you've seen someone before, you just can't pinpoint exactly where or when. I knew that the girl coveting my cousin's cousin cousin, the cousin that's not really our cousin but I call cousin, was someone I had seen before. She wasn't a regular, and she's not part of those who work there as I initially suspected, but I had seen her. Then I saw Kristina, sitting diagonally from me, on the opposite side of the bar. She was with her friend and two guys, and one of the guys had grown cozy, trying to hug her as she shoved him off, looking my way. She had probably noticed me before I noticed her, and it was too late in the night to go talk to her, not that I wanted to either. I simply kept doing what I was doing, but she went out for a smoke and the guy she was with followed her, and again, she tried to avoid him but the guy would not get the hint. I watched, out curiosity or boredom, but I was entertaining a conversation with my new cousin, who sat next to me, asked how I was, and I asked her about her recent trip to Colombia and whatnot. 

"Why the long face?" -I asked her. 

She confessed she wanted to cry. I told her, if there were no people seeing, I'd probably join her. She asked about my Russian friend and I told her I hadn't talked to or seen her in almost two weeks. Then it dawned on me: the girl whom I knew I had seen some other night there was the first Russian, two weeks ago. Two Russian girls who I had met on two different nights were now there, on a dead-beat Saturday night with no DJ, scarce attendance, very little to offer place, closing hour, how did I not notice her before, how was it that I missed a cataclysm of that magnitude? Was the Kristina Russian girl friends with her? Is it possible that I can still work up the courage to find out if my suspicions of espionage had any veracity? What are the odds, I said before, that I meet two Russian girls, two different nights, and while that was odd an occurrence, odder it seemed still that now both of them coincided there in the same place. No, they were not friends, they weren't even sitting close, Kristina had her friend from last time around and the other had her friend from that other crazy night, the last Saturday I saw a DJ there. No more Saturday DJ, we were at the mercy of the girls playing the jukebox, so the place was reminiscent of the times before it was acquired by the Tu Casa owner: vastly desolated, with just a few notable faces. There was nothing there, awaiting me then the street leading home, the weather growing colder, the empty apartment. By now, my mother should've been living here, but I still am by myself. That's a good thing, really... you cannot be a source of joy for anyone if you can't stand being by yourself. I stand alone, even when I'm surrounded by others, I said before. 

Paranoid as to what was unfolding, I wanted to secure a witness. I turned to cousin Al and asked if he remembered me talking to a tall Russian girl two weeks ago, and I had to remind him because he had forgotten it all. 

"Russian chick, her friend left her alone, we were smoking cigarettes, you were here, I was there" I told Al. 

Out of perhaps politeness, he said he did remember, of course.

"Hey, man, you know how guarded girls are at local bar? You have got to keep track because I don't want to be told later that I have been hallucinating these things" I said, laughing.
Ah, what great fun it is to be among familiar faces, where I stayed. Even when, judging by her moves, Kristina signaled that she was alone, passing me by, staying away from her stalker, I stayed with my people. The other Russian girl came to us, talked to my new cousin, and I didn't even register. I was not in my element, maybe I was just taking a night off. We all have nights like the rest of the world, in which we only get happily drunk... God forbid I go a weekend without kissing a stranger! 
Then I saw my glass, empty, looked up and there was the new bartender. 

"I think she's Russian" Al teased.

I had had enough. I picked up the bill, and soon thereafter left. 

As soon as I hit the bed, I fell into deep sleep. 

From The Greatest City in The World

There are well over three quarters of a million single women living in New York. Not to mention those who are already in a relationship or soon to be out of one, that are game; if they don't say, I don't ask. If you get creative, you can multiply that by considering online dating. You can feel adventurous suddenly and book a trip to your native land, where women are just eager to meet foreigners coming to this ravished nation –from anywhere they may stem, let alone those who come from the most advanced civilization, certainly the most prosperous and economically viable nation on earth… the cream of the crop, the good old United States of America.

Take into consideration that I stand six feet one inch tall, am semi-built, easy on the eye, with a sex appeal that’d make me like a mundane version of… oh, I don’t know who, but did I mention I am fashionable and just as equally important smart and yet not nearly as egotistical as I sound? But you probably already knew that since I am so well-versed. Perhaps more importantly, I am in the prime of my life –neither too young or too old, ripe for the competition, even have some money saved, steady work and whenever I walk into a bar, I know how the hottest chicks feel like: all eyes in the room directed in their direction, libidos aroused, whisperings running rampant around, heads slightly tilted and turning everywhere.

Early on in our formation we find that, yes, we are part of that select breed of the human spectrum considered beautiful. It happened to me when I was young, always heard my mother say I was quite handsome, but even Millhouse’s (from the Simpsons, particularly the part where Millhouse wants to impress Lisa) mother says that a lot. How did I actually start to believe my own hype? I really never did, in fact I feel, like most beautiful people, that I am not all that much, that I am just slightly above average. But one day, when I was twelve years old, I walked into a junior high school in a childhood neighborhood, and the man greeted me and asked if I was such and such person. I was astounded, did not know the man, and he said he was a friend of my mom’s and that she had said that he’d recognize me when he saw me.  Accordingly, my mother had told him that when he saw the best looking guy there, that’d be me. It took me years to assimilate the idea that I am, after all, a good looking guy. Nowadays, there’s hardly any doubt of it in my mind. Sure, like all lookers, I am well aware of my own aesthetic limitations, but that’s another story altogether.

And so, why is it that an appealing male in the prime of his life, living in the most productive land on earth, solvent and disease-free, has any emotional dilemma tonight? Why is it that we get fixated on a singular mating target, when there are hundreds, if not theoretically thousands, of fresh meat out there? When does having a whole lot of something suddenly mean nothing when you yourself have mental scarcity? It may well be that I am either not nearly as good looking as I set myself out to be or I’m just being downright cynical about it. Sure, you may have what it takes, but that’s hardly all that’s needed. Because just as you’re sure of yourself, so is the other hundred guys who read your manuscript and have adopted your donned-one ways. And so, I decided to be more than just another pretty face, and I was successful at it: I started exercising more than ten years ago; I am in respectable shape, added loyalty and sarcasm to the overall mix. I don't do what people tell me to do, I don't think twice before putting someone, especially a woman, in their place, if they step out of line. That adds, more than looks, character to your personal aura. You have a way with girls for quite sometime now, ever since you, out of boredom, decided to google the simple yet illuminating question: "What do women want?" 

It turned out that, no one knows, and it turns out that, it doesn't really matter. What matters most is your mission in life, said some David Daida -or was it De Angelo? Anyhow, I took a quantum leap in personal desirability: out of curiosity, I learned and practiced, over and again, those traits that women find more appealing in a man: confidence, discretion, loyalty, patience, body language, rapport, among others. I found that if I gave too much attention, I got none, and mind-boggling as it was, it turned out to be that as I became more and more immersed in my own experience, my own goals and ambitions, my life... that I automatically became more and more attractive to women. It always surprised me how us men obsessed over them yet rarely, if ever, took the time to find out anything more about our sexual counterpart, the female gender, other than her anatomy. I found that I was being girly in my projection, and that having been raised by a lonely, desperate woman had made me so. Then I stumbled upon the principle of taking charge and being accountable, therefore I could no longer blame mom for my shortcomings. At every turn, I faced a straight like an arrow shot at greatness and I always found some clandestine alley where I'd wander off in yet another existential turnaround. What I wanted mostly was, to know what older men knew before I got to be, well, old! And I guess I succeeded at seeing that it didn't really matter what made me more, because it stemmed from insecurity, therefore the very question of self-worth is in and of itself a crystal-clear predicament that our envisioned path has been rerouted, or that we went for a walk and found ourselves at a crossroads or, worse yet, at a dead-end. 

Why am I here, debating whether I should go looking for her -or not. I should either look for her or abandon the very thought of it for something far more precious and cool: a night outing in the most amazing city the world has ever seen. That is New York, not Los Angeles. And so when, out of the purple moon, Connie called to ask if I wanted to go to L.A. and I jumped at the very suggestion, I guess what I wanted more than anything in this world was the opportunity to see my youngest son again, never mind L.A. is more than five hours away and I hate flying, I have flown more this year when I have been estranged from my son than in any other of my life so far. No, the girl I should be looking for does not have a child of mine and I thought it was more than coincidental of Connie to mention that she'd want to go to L.A., when just recently my dearly beloved absent girl friend of mine, the one that I should be looking for, mentioned something about missing L.A. I took it as her saying that New York hadn't been all that great ever since I left the picture. So, I left it at that and gave her a Like on her status. But phoning, or texting her, on a Saturday, no, no, no... that's a no-no in my book. 

I ought  to throw the book like I have done with her. I ought to go with the opposite of what I know-it-would-work and start practicing the less than appealing, more humane neediness that permeates from within, and just get it all over. Nothing would make a girl run faster than finding out that, on a night such as this, it is her who is in your mind and that you'd rather watch mindless movies and listen to music you'd never get to hear with her for now, because it reminds you of her. That the city, the greatest that ever lived, New York, the one I fell for even before the plane that brought me landed, isn't nearly as attractive and wholesome as it used to, and that a local bar infested with regulars and very few thrills makes me more at ease and together than anything just because it's only a few blocks away from where she'd be sleeping tonight. It just boggles me that there is some unknown technique that would land me her, just not in shape, body or form, and definitely not tonight. 

Poker Face

Last night I met Kristina, a Russian girl who was just as tall as me and had been in the States for only four months. She apologized for the poor language skills and I actually noted to her that for only being here a few months, it was not that horrible. My teasing her did not register on her.
It was unreal. The second week in a row I meet a Russian girl and paranoid as I am, what I thought was, maybe I'm sending off some Russian vibe into the universe. Last week Russian girl was petite, had a model type of body, and just as many beautiful women was unbearable. She asked me if someone was sitting on any of the two seats next to me, and I said: "Yeah, this seat is taken" and I pointed out to the seat right next to me. Then the casual friend who was sitting next to me rushed over and offered her and her friend his seat. I shook my head mentally, and decided to abandon him to his delusion of thinking that just because he had a nice gesture, he'd get anywhere with them.
The difference between the two Russian girls, the one last week and the one last night, was that last week there were more people there and I had more than that one interaction. In fact, the guy who was sitting next to me was a friend of a girl I know, nothing much really but I enjoy teasing her and initially hadn't done so because I thought there might be a possibility she was with that jerk friend of hers. Of course, the guy was not a jerk, but here he was, tall enough, built like only a mixed martial artist can be. And yet, he lacked the refinement of character and disposition required to attract a girl. I took pity on him initially, until he embarrassed me by telling the girl I considered to be the most beautiful at the bar that I had deemed her so. Since that moment on, I disowned him, and moved abruptly to undo the damage done by simply ignoring the girl in question. It worked, the girl did not know if she could verify what the guy had said and I continued to play aloof.
It was good sitting quietly there, sipping my drink and thinking of the next time I'd see my dear Russian friend Anastasia. I'd see her again on Tuesday, not Monday as we had convened, briefly at noon to give a bouquet of flowers I got her honoring her 22nd birthday. And then I saw her the next day, in the afternoon again, and we took a stroll down my aunt's house. My aunt wasn't home and Jorge opened the door after we had sat in the bench outside for a while. I teased her that not kissing was no reason to have chapped lips. We went inside my aunt's house, invited by Jorge, and played with the dog Sonny for a while, before she had the idea of going back to my place to watch a movie. On Amazon, I ordered "The Number 23" and streamed it to my 51 inch Samsung TV. We were getting cozy when my mother made an abrupt entrance, and a while later, as soon as the movie was finished, I walked her home and she went about her aerobic zumba dance somewhere in the city and I went about seeing my son Esteban. I proposed we meet later that night for more movie watching, but then she didn't say anything and when I sent her a text I did not get a reply for an hour, so I gave up. I haven't called her or text her since then, more than four days ago. What seems odd is the fact that I have briefly met two Russian girls, whom I flat-out denounced as "spy" friends respectively, but the likelihood of that being the case, that is, those Russian girls being friends whom she sent there to spy, is remote and quite foolish. Nonetheless, I was suspicious as to why, since I have been on this earth, not that I remember all that has happened, but I can say quite confidently that I have never met two Russian girls in two consecutive weeks at the same local bar while being sort of involved with a sweet Russian girl myself. The one last week, I discarded, because when I asked for her name, she replied: "No name." So I kept calling her that and we were having sporadic moments until we coincided outside for a cigarette and I left without saying anything. We had had a conversation when I pointed out that I thought she was a spy. A Russian spy, a friend of my Russian fling. She asked why did I bother talking to her if I was so worried about the possibility of her knowing my girlfriend. "She's not my girlfriend, she's my girl friend" I said. "You shouldn't talk to other girls when you feel so strongly about her." Then I said: "What the fuck are you talking about? That's preposterous!" But she kind of made sense, girls are very intuitive and she must have sensed that I was more worried than my normal self was letting out to be. I walked home and left her with half her cigarette, and still thinking of the moment when I next see my Russian friend Anastasia and demand to know if she had sent some spies there that or any other night. We have had a great friendship and I have had relationships of this kind: non-defined, easy-going, no goal in mind. It is good to have such relationships, especially with women who are used to guys throwing themselves at their feet or saying that they want more. We always want more, so I think there's something noble to be able to restrain your instincts and care and tend to someone not based on a romantic agenda. We have had something, we do have something, but the fact that it is something unconventional and unique, something that has all the ingredients of a great love affair, makes it the more alluring, enigmatic, precious and tantalizing thing, not just some. More than something, we have been intimate, made love and fucked, but mostly cuddled and not kiss (as it is her wish to go to the altar without having kissed me, this is driving me insane) and I have kissed her forcibly a few times. She still comes around, she knows she's safe around me, and whatever is happening inside that cutie blond head of hers isn't really my concern. I remember that the bartender Erin and I had a similar affair, we were friends who looked like lovers, we too slept in the same bed, cuddled, even made out but then we found ourselves with respective lovers and we drifted apart. I remember a feeling I don't want to have again over that ordeal and it is that if the girl is not going to be mine, I may not waste her and my time anymore than it is necessary. So, no, I want this and then again I don't want it, so I put time in between. Maybe it's a matter of a few days, a few weeks, but I will definitely push the envelope. Oh, yeah, we talked about getting married, I said it was because of blond ambition. And it's not like I sit idly home and wait for a phone call that won't come, my phone never rings and I'm not a phone person. I had Beth come over and spent some quality time with my son. I went out on Saturday. I made some new friends. I worked out. I smoked and drank, but never too much. I had a nice conversation with my cousin Gio. But I missed my cousin Alan and I miss my Russian girl friend Ana, and I may seem like I'm being too proud or too stoic about it but the fact is, I am not. I just like to do without, and I know I am alone and I know that it takes time for someone to love us. But if our effort isn't validated, sometimes you gotta go all in or just put down your cards. I am not one apt candidate for a poker face stance. We want to feel wanted, to hold our girl's hand, to take her out on a weekend, take her to the movies... and not be instead this safe alternative guy who likes day walks and movies in the apartment.

So the fact that last night I found another Russian girl when there were fewer than five girls left, and the fact that it had happened for a second week in a row, I took notice. There's no such a thing as coincidence, but things of this nature happen to me on a regular basis. And so last night I had a different strategy: I actually wanted to feel what it was like to hold and be held, to kiss kissable lips, to feel wanted for a change right before that tall Russian girl walked out of the bar. We kissed twice, once briefly, I sort of pushed myself into it. She had said if it was destiny, we would meet again; I knew I wouldn't see her again under those terms, so I unleashed all of my stamina and rapport unto her. She responded shyly, but the second time around it was her who initiated it. We kissed briefly, open lips this second time around, wet and deep, half-closed eyes. We were envied for a little while, and we had done this when there was no other girls left at the bar, just drunk people. I had gotten there late, as I was just home. Saturday nights are such a hype and I retired them long ago. Saturdays are too much work, the best people I've met, I met them on broad day light, not at night, and I met them on every other day of the week. Saturdays are for lunatics and youngsters who want to believe that life is short, that is about hitting on as many girls as possible and binge drinking and whatnot. I am not being a prune, but I have already lived that. Now I just sit back and relax and have an out of control moment very rarely.
I may give this girl a call and see what's she's up to, but not tonight.